Reflex
by fayzalmoonbeam
Summary: Sorry-I felt like being mean to lovely Arnold-pre death of the crew there's a disco, Rimmer goes, gets humiliated. Poor baby. Complete


Disclaimer: Grant and Naylor (and Chris Barrie) are all gods. And while I  
might own Arnold Judas Rimmer in my dreams, I certainly can't lay claim  
to him in the flesh or any associated Red Dwarfisms. I'm poor-please  
don't sue me! Oh and the Latinesque quote (probably spelt badly!) was  
one I found in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale and means 'don't let  
the bastards grind you down'.  
  
The attention to detail was.well actually not bad considering that no one  
on the crew had actually been alive in the last two decades of the 20th  
century. OK, the disco ball was a little shoddy, missing several of its  
mosaic mirrored pieces but the crew in attendance had really taken the  
time travel theme to heart. Everywhere you looked there was panoply of  
clashing neon colours, bad perms, stiletto heels. Power suits (male and  
female) and geometric haircuts.  
  
From across the dance floor, Dave Lister downed his seventh pint of lager  
and munched ravenously on another packet of curry flavoured 'Flavour and  
Shake' crisps (the crisps he couldn't understand-why people wanted to go  
to the effort of adding their own flavouring to crisps in the 1980's was  
a concept well beyond him). There was certainly more heart in the 80's  
side of the time travel disco, although Lister could see one or two  
tributes to the early 90's pop 'sensations' of Take That and Vanilla Ice.  
Oh well, it took all sorts, he philosophised drunkenly as yet another  
pair of brightly coloured stilettos passed him by, attached to a rather  
smutty looking blonde.  
  
"Petersen!" Lister greeted his equally drunken co-worker. "How's it  
hangin' mate?"  
  
Petersen looked quizzical for a moment and then gave Lister a grin "Not  
so bad Dave, yourself?"  
  
"Can't complain." Lister replied. His gaze was momentarily distracted  
from his friend by the site of his anally retentive roommate Arnold  
Rimmer, who had just entered the bar. A low whistle escaped Lister's  
lips.  
  
"What the smeg is he doing here?" He said, more to himself than to  
Petersen, who was intent on getting another drink.  
  
Lister wasn't the only one who'd noticed Rimmer arrive. From a booth at  
the side of the bar, Todhunter sniggered and turned to a pretty brunette  
who was sat by his side. Writing rapidly on a large piece of paper, he  
whispered in the brunette's ear. She looked perplexed for a moment, and  
then giggled along with him. Through a break in the music, she could be  
heard saying. "OK sweetheart, but only because you asked me to.."  
  
*****  
Rimmer knew this was a bad idea. He had known about the immense badness  
of this particular idea before he'd even had the idea, for God's sake.  
Now, feeling horribly exposed and totally socially clueless, he had to  
fight the urge to return to his quarters and vomit ferociously. However,  
judging by some of the colourful ensembles he saw other people wearing,  
even if he decided to throw up on his own front in the middle of the  
disco, no one would even notice. The neon pink t- shirt and rolled up  
blue jeans over Doc Martens made him feel like a complete social  
inadequate (but then he reflected, he already was one, even without the  
clothes). He knew the T shirt wasn't going to stay that colour for long  
(who the smeg had invented the repulsive idea of global hypercolour t-  
shirts anyway? That way, everyone would know he was nervous by the huge  
electric blue patches under his arms as his sweat made the material  
change colour).  
  
Across the dance floor Rimmer saw Lister drunkenly trying to hold a  
conversation with Petersen and some other inebriated crewmen. How did  
Lister do it? Rimmer asked himself silently. Not that he'd want to  
socialise with Lister's mates in a million years, but the man seemed to  
find conversation so easy. Despite himself, Rimmer envied Lister's casual  
small talk. It was a gift he himself had never been blessed with, and at  
times like these it was a huge burden. Todhunter was sat nearby with his  
officer cronies, as well as a bevy of beautiful girls and Rimmer hated  
himself for his desire to join them.  
  
"Alright Arnold?" Someone yelled from the dance floor. Stiffly Rimmer  
turned and gave the caller the salute. The man sniggered and turned away.  
Rimmer reflected that the salute wasn't the best response for an informal  
social situation and resolved not to do it again.  
  
"A drink. That's what I need to make this whole thing more bearable,"  
Rimmer said to himself and headed circuitously across the dance floor to  
the bar. A woman far past her best attempted to put her arms around him  
as he passed, but he shrugged her off impatiently. He had no time for  
women who couldn't hold their booze. The irony of this thought was lost  
on Rimmer, who was known for his low tolerance of alcohol.  
  
Four or five wine spritzers later, and Rimmer was beginning to relax. So  
much so, that he quite willingly accepted the invitation of the good  
looking brunette to dance. The music was suitably retro-and Rimmer was  
strangely drawn to the pulsing beat of Duran Duran's Reflex.  
  
"You're a great dancer Arnie," the brunette (Sharon? Karen? He couldn't  
quite remember) shouted above the music.  
  
"Thank you, and it's Arnold," he replied, wondering why it even mattered  
how she addressed him. This was the closest he'd been to a woman since  
McGruder and the pizza, and, well, let's just say he was likely to  
remember this encounter a little better than the last. As the music  
shifted tone to a slower, more relaxed tone, the feeling of holding a  
woman in his arms was definitely something he felt he could get used to.  
For once his feet seemed to move in time with the music and he could feel  
himself swaying in time with the woman he held. All around him he could  
see people laughing and he thought hazily that they must all be having as  
great a time as he was.  
  
"Oh Arnie, pull me closer baby," Karen/Sharon murmured into Rimmer's ear,  
and stiffly, he brought her closer to him.  
  
Baby? He questioned. Then, let it go. What the heck.  
  
It was almost as if Karen/Sharon sensed him relax. That's was when it all  
started to collapse.  
  
"Hey, baby," Rimmer echoed. "How about going for a coffee somewhere  
a little quieter?"  
  
Crack. That was the moment things collapsed. Karen/Sharon pulled away  
from him and began to laugh. Her laughter was hollow, loud and full of  
scorn.  
"Me? Go for a coffee? With you? I don't think so!" Her words cut him like  
a knife.  
  
"B-but, w-we were getting on so well-" Rimmer stammered, the old familiar  
and hated stutter getting the better of him again.  
  
"Let's get one thing straight Rimmer," she replied. Her face, far from  
being beautiful, as it had been five minutes ago, was now angular in its  
cruelty. "I wouldn't get a coffee, or anything else for that matter, with  
you, if you were the last man on Red Dwarf!"  
  
The world was closing in on Arnold Rimmer. All around he could see the  
faces of his crewmates laughing at his very obvious humiliation. Don't  
let them see they've hurt you. The words sounded hollow and unimportant  
to him now. They were closing in on him, a laughing, claustrophobic mass  
of humanity, revelling in his hurt and the searing pain of his  
embarrassment.  
  
"Excuse me," he mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor and stumbling  
through the crowds, out of the door and away from the curious eyes. The  
urge to vomit had returned, and there was no reason not to give into it  
now. Stopping when he ran out of breath, Rimmer leaned against the side  
of the grey corridor and was violently sick.  
  
When the retching had subsided enough for him to open his eyes, Rimmer  
slumped back against the wall of the corridor. Why? Why did every single  
he person he met have the desire to humiliate him? Right from the start,  
virtually from the day he was born, his father had gone out of his way to  
make his life miserable, and that had set a pattern for the rest of his  
life to date.  
  
"Don't give into it Rimmsy boy," he murmured to himself. "Ne lite te  
bastades carborandorum.ne lite te bastardes carborandorum.ne lite." Over  
and over he repeated the mantra he'd learned from primary school; it  
protected him from acknowledging the truth of what had just happened. It  
was no use. The bastards had well and truly won this round. Faltering  
into silence, Rimmer pulled his knees up to his chest and allowed the  
tears to fall. This was no life.  
  
Some time later Rimmer heard quiet footsteps approaching from the other  
end of the corridor. He looked up and came face to face with an  
unfamiliar blonde.  
  
"Hello," she said tentatively. "You're Arnold Rimmer aren't you?"  
  
A pause. "Yes. Would you like to stick the boot in a little more? I  
suppose you saw what happened to me on the dance floor and you've come to  
gloat." His voice sounded surprisingly, and reassuringly normal.  
  
The blonde looked confused. "Well, no actually, but I saw you sat down  
here and I just wanted to make sure you were OK. I've been on shift all  
night." She made to move closer to him, but Rimmer defiantly stood up and  
moved away.  
  
"That you for your concern but as you can see, I am absolutely fine. Now  
please go about your business and kindly leave me to mine." The old nasal  
twang with the smattering of defensiveness was back, and intact, complete  
with over enunciation of key adverbs. Rimmer noted the normality of his  
voice with no small relief.  
  
"OK Rimmer, see you around sometime." Visibly rebuffed, the blonde walked  
away down the corridor.  
  
When he was sure that she had gone, Rimmer drew a shuddering breath and  
began to walk the opposite way down the corridor. He knew he didn't  
deserve that woman's pity, and that he had been unspeakable rude to her.  
But then, after all, that was what they all expected of him, wasn't it?  
After all, if there wasn't an Arnold Judas Rimmer on board, who else  
would they all have to measure themselves against, and ultimately, feel  
superior to?  
  
As Rimmer moved away brokenly to his room, a piece of paper fluttered  
down from the back of his t-shirt and landed in the pool of vomit. It  
read simply:  
  
Call me Bonehead. 


End file.
